She drank champagne as if it was the least celebratory drink on the planet, exuding a sort of world-weariness that can only come from having too much of everything. Or not having anything left to dream of.
The bar was an open circle in the centre of the shopping mall, cordoned off by deep-red velvet strings bleeding from the ceiling—like a shredded curtain put up more for effect than privacy. She held court in the middle of it all, the ennui on obvious display on her face. And I wanted to help her, make her feel better.
Undoubtedly, there are a lot of other people much more deserving of my help. People in actual need, with no money or a roof over their head.
More Six Sentence Sunday goodness can be found at the official website. I’ll be back with more next week.
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